The Making of an Angry Young Man
I’m writing this because I can’t afford therapy and find writing more therapeutic than speaking to a stranger for large sums of money about things neither of us can change.
I wasn’t angry as a kid, at least not on the surface. I don’t recall being particularly angry or upset about anything internally.
I remember internal and what seemed like genuine and eternal happiness. Perhaps it was just child like innocence or the bliss that is ignorance.
There was nothing from a material standpoint that was responsible for my happiness, we had little but we had enough and I was always good with it.
My parents weren’t together but they were also never married so on the surface and on a conscious level, the fact they weren’t never bothered me.
I’m an only child and although I would fantasize about having a brother or sister, I always found a way to entertain myself and had cousins who I was closer with than most siblings are. I had two very large and “close” families.
I remember seeing kids whose parents were going through a divorce, ones who were upset enough about this for it to be a known thing in school and not getting it, not understanding their tears.
Then I remember not being upset about the fact I didn’t have two parents at home but instead being legitimately angry at those who would come to school crying about such. I hated their tears and found them embarrassing.
I was never bothered by the fact my parents weren’t together because I had no memories of them being together that didn’t involve them arguing.
I don’t know why I was so bothered by the kids who would show up crying because their parents were going through a divorce, who were experiencing a pain I thought I knew but actually knew nothing about.
I never said anything to or picked on any of the kids who were, nor did I ever mention my situation to them. They all saw my Dad pick me up at the end of the day and as far as I was concerned that’s all they needed to know — Dad got me.
And Dad always did get me, still does to this day to be honest. When nobody else is coming to help or gives a fuck, he does. He helps in situations I wish I didn’t need his help in but do, without asking, because he knows I won’t. He’s just there and I’m eternally grateful. I owe him more than I’ll ever be able to repay and it goes so much further than financially.
So on the surface, there was really no anger. None I recall anyhow. No underlying reasons for rage that would one day come to light in the ugliest of fashions.
No parental neglect or abuse to speak of in which I was aware of anyhow.
Then, I remember being about seven years old and wrestling with a cousin who was more like a younger brother to me and a neighbor two doors down who was one of my best friends in the entire world. We were rough housing on the neighbors lawn, as seven year old boys do.
My neighbor friend was a lot bigger than both my cousin and I and both my friend and I were a few years older than my cousin.
The two of them were wrestling and my cousin ended up on the bottom, screaming in pain for my friend to get off of him. My friend wouldn’t listen.
I don’t remember what went through my head other than the fact my cousin was being hurt by someone older and bigger than him and that I had to do something about it immediately.
Despite the fact he was probably three times my size, I ran at him full force and tackled him so he was no longer on top of my much smaller cousin.
Once my alleged friend was down, I recall saying “Don’t ever hurt my cousin” before kicking him directly in his head, as hard as a seven year old can. Being I wasn’t a violent kid and had never been in a real fight, I doubt it was hard. But it was hard enough that nobody ever picked on my cousin in front of me again.
My Dad caught the tail end of the entire thing, I was punished for weeks and left with the lesson to never kick a man when he is down, as well as the message that I was not wrong for defending my cousin — despite the fact my Dad never advocated fighting or violence.
I remember my Dad’s level of concern though because he had watched it happen and had never seen that rage in me. He had never seen me be anything but polite and kind.
It clearly came from somewhere, perhaps it was just well suppressed early.
The fact is, I became the angriest of angry young men and I’d like to explore exactly when, where and why that happened. However, rather than pay a bunch of money I don’t have to do it in private with a qualified professional — I figured I’d just do it here publicly and get to the bottom of it on my own.